


Such an easy game

by Selena



Category: Swinging London RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena/pseuds/Selena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship, misunderstandings, sex and song: or, what happened when the biggest British singer of the 50s met the biggest British band of the 60s and fell for their gay manager. Or did she? Alma Cogan, Brian Epstein and the Beatles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naraht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** All fantasy and speculation. If you're interested in the real life background, I reccomend Sandra Caron's "Alma Cogan: A Memoir" about her sister, and the Alma-centric chapters in Barry Miles' "Many Years From Now", which contain extensive reminiscences of Paul McCartney on the subject. 
> 
> **Thanks To** : Likeadeuce, for beta-reading! 
> 
> **Warnings** : The occasional 1960s homophobia, some of it internalized.
> 
>  **Timeline** : Starts January 12th, 1964.

They met her on a bitingly cold day, two weeks into the new year after the last one had been their year of miracles, and the next one promised to be even more. America, Brian promised, America, and that was what they were thinking of when showing up for _Sunday Night at the London Palladium_. Yes, they'd meet and be on stage with a lot of Britain's most famous entertainers, but that was no longer new, no longer unheard of. America was. 

Still, they did check out the names on the program, and John laughed when seeing Alma Cogan's among them. "[Sugar in the morning](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP5TsJAyFJc)", he sang with the fakest of fake accents and grimaced accordingly, "sugar in the evening..." 

She'd been a favourite target of his in art college, Alma Cogan, the epitome of all that was stale and mumsy and boring. That's not music, he used to say, it's candy so fake it won't even damage your teeth. Bouncy Alma Cogan in her glittery gowns, on tv all the time, the girl with a giggle in her voice, the papers called her. Some girl, John said. An old hag over thirty by now, for sure. Hadn't she been recording since a few decades?

"Since 1952, I believe," Brian said mildly, because he had reason to remember. After all, Alma Cogan was the most successful female music star Britain had ever produced, and he had managed Liverpool's most successful record store. But while his private musical taste differed from the boys', he'd never been terribly interested in Alma Cogan, either. Still, his mother liked her, and he planned to ask for an autograph if the occasion arose. 

Because the fans by now made it impossible for them to arrive and leave without attracting screaming mobs if the public knew of their appearances and did not care in the slightest who else performed while screaming for them, they were brought to the Palladium as late as possible, making their habitual dash from the limousine through the stage door to the area behind the stage where stagehands and presenters waited. They almost collided with a rush of silk and sequin. 

"Cheer up, boys," said the sultriest brunette John had ever encountered, up to and including every single stripper in Hamburg, "running in high heels takes practice, and yours are almost higher than mine." 

Then she turned to rush on stage, and he found himself mouth slightly open. To cover for this, he fell back on a childish prank and stretched his leg out. He did make her stumble, but instead of trying to cover it up, she converted it into a full time comic splash to the floor. Buster Keaton hadn't done more professional pratfalls than that. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," she said grandly, contralto voice somehow managing to be both smoky and, yes, giggly, "this is your wake-up call. _Nobody_ sleeps during my performance!" 

The audience exploded in laughter, with her, not at her, and they could see her rise gracefully, throwing kisses at the adoring crowd. 

" _This_ is Alma Cogan?" George muttered in disbelief. John said nothing. He was still staring in disbelief while the music started, playing one of those banal, bouncy, boring tunes. It was all familiar from the tv, the black bouffant hair, the arched eyebrows, the Hollywood smile, but somehow those black and white pixels had hidden the vitality of the woman who now sang her absurd song of [not doing tangos with Eskimos](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSSxrb6Bvhk). Instead of boring and stale, she came across as burningly alive. 

"Perhaps some apology when she comes off stage would not be amiss," Brian said, using the tone he had when making it clear there really was no alternative to the bloody suits if they wanted to get a record contract. John shot his manager a look, but Brian's expression actually wasn't angry; Brian was too busy staring at the stage himself, looking charmed. 

"You're good at apologies, I'm not, you do it," John said. "Anyroad, it was an accident, is all." 

Nonetheless, he didn't want her to think of him as an oaf, and besides, why should she have the last laugh?

When she came off stage, bundles of flowers in her hands, he said: "So can you teach us how to?"

That arched brow looked as if it was actually real instead of painted. He made a mental note to later tease Paul about trading plucking tips with the woman. 

"Pratfalls?" she asked back. "I think you can manage the prat part on your own." 

"Running in high heels," John corrected and gave her a blatant come on of a smile, just to see how she'd react.

She threw head back and laughed. Then she patted him on the cheek. 

"God loves a tryer," she said, and invited them all to her flat, which as it turned out was somewhere in Kensington, and wasn't just hers but her mother's and sister's as well. The furniture was all Italian leather, and the red lampshades and red glasses reminded him absurdly of Hamburg while the mother was the most respectable old lady you could think of and fussed over them at once. The sister was a younger version of Alma, and greeted Paul like an old friend. As it turned out, she was an actress, and Paul had seen her act with Peter Cook a couple of times. 

"There's one thing I know for sure, son" John said in a low voice to Paul when it was Brian's turn to get greeted and be fussed over. "If we ever tour the Antarctic, there'll be a girl there whom you've fucked already, too."

"Did not," Paul said, but he evidently remembered the name of the sister, which was Sandra, and given the sheer number of girls who flung themselves at them by now, _something_ must have happened to make her stand out. Sandra was pretty and cheerful enough, but she wasn't compelling. Not like Alma. 

_Damn it_ , John thought, wandering around the flat which Alma's mother had proudly decorated with photographs of her older daughter, finding that face with its mocking laugh staring back at him. _Damn it._


	2. Just Couldn't Resist Her With Her Pocket Transistor

Permanently moving from Liverpool to London didn't make them Londoners; nor did having been the most successful British musical act of 1963. Brian Epstein was painfully aware of this, and it was one of the reasons why he counted befriending Alma Cogan as yet another of those magical strokes of luck that started the moment he first visited the Cavern. Alma knew everyone, and everyone knew her, on both sides of the Atlantic. It wasn't unusual to meet Sammy Davis or Cary Grant in her flat, a Cary Grant who felt free enough to let go of his suave gentleman persona and slip into his native Bristolian accent now and then. And yet her place at 44 Stafford Court wasn't alien the way the clubs in London were, or the grand receptions. Alma's mother serving drinks and little dishes on a silver tray while clicking disapprovingly with her tongue if one of her daughters took the proverbial last kipper instead of leaving it for the guests reminded him of his own mother, Queenie; so did the glint in her eyes as she sized him up when Alma introduced them. 

"Never mind Mum," Alma said to him later, "she's almost given up finding a nice Jewish boy for me. It's getting to the point where she's considering Sammy, and he's married."

And black, she didn't add; though nobody who was Jewish and aspired to acceptance would ever pretend there were no prejudices in their world, as Brian knew only too well. Her frankness about her mother came with a blithe assurance that she didn't have to care whether or not he misunderstood it as a pass, and he envied her. 

"My mother is the same," he admitted, though at least moving to London had ensured there were no more daughters of friends thrown his way, with all the awkward exercises in politeness that entailed before it became clear to the girls he was not interested and never would be. 

"Your mother is looking for nice boys for you?" Alma asked, widening her eyes in mock shock, and he was caught between horror and an odd sense of lightness until she grasped his hand and said. "Joking. Just joking, Brian. This is why my mother's quest is hopeless, you know. Nice boys want nice girls, and I'm not." 

He told her she was the most charming woman he knew. 

"Indeed," she said wryly. "But neither nice or a girl. Which was my point."

There were rumours about Alma, which his personal assistant Peter told him with a certain glee. Of course there were. "The most successful female star of the last decade, over thirty, and not married even once? She must be a dyke." 

Peter, of course, had noticed that Brian visited Alma Cogan more often than was strictly necessary on the boys' behalf. The relish with which Peter shared this particular bit of gossip might have had something to do with this; he sometimes had a disconcertingly possessive attitude about Brian. 

Given that the majority of guests at Alma's parties were male, Brian doubted she preferred women. At any rate, she had a talent for picking up the unspoken. During one of their first visits the actor Stanley Baker suggested playing charades, and Alma, without being told, guessed that none of the boys had ever played this before. So she covered for them and explained the rules while pretending to reminisce with Sandra about their first charades, during their school days. 

"Two teams, Sister Margaret used to insist, do you remember, Sandra, in that prissy little voice?" She mimicked an upper middle class accent to perfection. " _The players divide into two teams, each team produces a secret term or phrase, and the other team must guess it while one of them embodies it in pantomime._ " 

"And _no_ lip movements or sound!" cried Sandra in the same accent.

"You went to a convent, Sara Sequin?" John asked Alma. Brian didn't know whether the nickname indicated fondness or derision. Sometimes it was hard to tell, with John. "I didn't know there are Jewish convents." 

"There aren't," Alma replied. "It was a Catholic school because Mum thought the nuns would supervise us all the time without being distracted by having a life of their own. Normal teachers are funny like that. So we got sent out every time there was a prayer or religious education, Sandra and I. Not enough time to sin, but it was beastly cold in the morning and I could have lost my voice, can you imagine?"

She spoke flippantly the entire time and smiled, but Brian caught her gaze, and in her dark eyes he could see his own experience. Parents who were ambitious and rich enough to send you to good schools, but nothing bought you out of the awareness, the constant awareness of being different, and the derision by other children which was worse than anything adults could devise. 

Alma's smile slipped, just for a moment, and their gaze held. 

"Well, you don't need it for pantomime," John said, a slight frown on his face, looking from Alma to Brian. "Your voice." 

"I was always better than Alma at charades anyway," Sandra interjected, who seemed to share the family talent to sense sudden tensions. "And I want you in my team. Alma can have Paul."

Paul mimicked dejection. He and Sandra engaged in a flirtation that as far as Brian could tell never went anywhere, but was constant. 

"And that's why she won't marry me", Paul said. "No confidence in my acting abilities." 

"That's because you have none, mate," John said, frownless and restored to good humor again. "So who gets to choose the words the others must guess?" 

Charades weren't the only games played at Alma's parties, though they were the most popular because all the guests, independent of their respective backgrounds, could participate. If there were only musicians present, Alma sometimes organized a quiz to guess obscure songs with a minimum of notes played on the piano that stood in her living room and was more often than not claimed by Paul because he couldn't leave any instrument alone for a long time. George was good as long as the songs in question could be played either by guitar or ukulele, and at one point surprised everyone by recognizing a Bach piece that had served as a guitar exercise, but if it was something originally written for horns or clarinet, he had to pass. Ringo was firm in Country and Western, but that was about it. Brian prided himself on having a record store owner's memory, but even so, he was usually defeated halfway in while Lionel Bart, the musical composer, Paul and Alma herself emerged as the final contestants. John refused to play altogether, declaring he tried his best to forget all that mush anyway, but Brian once caught him murmuring "[Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Old Gang Of Mine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRNmaup2mVg)" at the same time Paul said it out loud. Considering the song had been released in 1929, it was hardly John's usual style. 

"My mother liked that song," John said shortly when noticing Brian's surprised face, and then vanished into the kitchen to steal more chocolate from Mrs. Cohen while Alma finished singing the song in an impromptu duet with Paul. 

Listening to them, Brian felt happy and included as he rarely had done before. In Liverpool, and later on tour, he had thought there was an invisible generational line between him and the boys on social occasions; that they had considered him to be part of their parents side of the equation, despite the fact he was still in his twenties, barely, and would pass the thirty years mark only this year. Of course, he wanted them to listen to him and to respect him, but he also wanted to belong in a way he could never quite define. There were moments when it seemed possible, and increasingly, they happened in the society of Alma Cogan. 

"She's something, isn't she?" John commented, reappearing from the kitchen and watching Alma duetting with Paul. "She's really something."


	3. The Night Before

Cynthia was an optimist by nature although some people would claim little in her life justified it. When she'd ended up pregnant and forced to deny her married status because her husband's manager and her husband thought it would damage John professionally, she'd been sure it was only temporary, and would sort itself out. When the baby was there but her husband went on holidays with his manager, she'd told herself John hadn't stopped touring and recording for months and really needed the break and that babies were noisy; he would come home and they would finally start being happy again, being a family. When they had moved to London, away from her family and friends and everything she'd ever known, she'd told herself at least she wouldn't have to hide any longer, and that they'd make new friends, together. Would discover London together. When the fans besieged her so much she couldn't go out with the baby without having to fear the boy would get snatched and cuddled to death by the adoring crowd who just wanted to squeeze something of John's, they'd moved to a suburb. The mock Tudor mansion they had ended up in scared her in its size and luxury, but at least it was theirs, and fan free, and _now_ their married family life could finally begin.

Except that now John developed the habit of looking at her and finding her wanting. Maybe she was imagining things. In art school, she had dyed her hair and dressed up as Brigitte Bardot to please him, though she'd inwardly died of shame, and it had indeed made him happy, but now blonde hair and attempting to look sexy by wearing French fashion was no longer enough. She wasn't afraid of the screaming teenagers who showed up at the Beatles' concerts, but on the rare occasions John took her with him to the London clubs, she looked at the women there in their trendy clothes and gamine figures with no signs of having borne a child, and felt old and provincial despite being in her early 20s. 

Then he took her to a party of Alma Cogan's, and she felt calmer already. She remembered very well how often John had made fun of Alma Cogan at school, and imagined someone she could empathize with, someone who would put up with John's sharp tongue but only barely, having to suppress tears more than once. "My mother loves your songs," she would tell Alma Cogan to make up for John's rudeness, and maybe Alma would then become her friend. It was hard, not having any friends or anyone else to talk to but a baby. Everyone she knew in London was John's friend first and foremost, and as for the girlfriends of the other Beatles, George's changed constantly, Ringo's was still in Liverpool because her parents wouldn't allow her to come to London, and Paul's girlfriend, Jane Asher, was a glamorous actress who intimidated her. 

The reality of Alma Cogan and Alma's party was so very different from what she had imagined that she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. John basically forgot Cynthia existed once he had introduced her. Alma, despite being utterly unlike those fashionable thin girls from the clubs, was a stunner who wore her voluptousness like her sparkling gowns and had every man present adore her so effortlessly, including John, that Cynthia had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming. She sat on the sofa with its fine Italian leather, still clutched her first glass of gin and tonic and didn't know what to do or to say while her husband told Alma an anecdote about Hamburg he'd never shared with her.

Jane Asher drifted by and was nice enough to sit down next to Cynthia. 

"It's just business, you know," she said in a low voice to Cynthia, who was startled.

"What is?" 

Jane indicated Alma, joking with John and standing next to the piano where Paul was playing something. 

"She's a singer," Jane said kindly. "Actors, if they have any sense at all, cultivate playwrights. Singers need composers. So you befriend them, that's what you do. And Alma is a singer who hasn't had a number one in Britain for a while now. She's still big abroad, but here? Not so much. But guess who are called the most sensational hit writing duo since Rodgers and Hammerstein right now? That's how the business works."

This made sense. Cynthia brightened up. Jane would know, wouldn't she? She'd first auditioned when she was five. You still could see her on tv in some of those old roles: little Jane Asher, now a red haired beauty with porcelain skin who seemed as if she'd stepped right out of a pre-Raphaelite painting into reality. Then it occurred to Cynthia that even if Alma was just interested in John because she wanted songs from him, this didn't mean he was interested in her for the same reason. On the contrary, Cynthia was sure John hadn't changed his opinion on Alma's _music_ one bit. So his interest in Alma could only have one reason. And he was captivated by her. He rather blatantly was. 

She blinked. She hadn't brought her glasses with her, which added to the sense of isolation she felt, seeing people only blurry until they came closer. John had tried to make her wear the glasses, but he hadn't had a leg to stand on, refusing to wear his glasses as well for the same reason she avoided hers, with less reason, actually, because by now it was obvious everyone would adore him even if he wore National Health spectacles. Cynthia felt provincial and old fashioned enough already without glasses making her owlish to boot, but now she felt she could have shown up in pullover and woolen stockings or naked, and it wouldn't have made a difference to anyone. Jane still looked at her sympathetically, and suddenly all the anger and despair that welled up in Cynthia, that she had been storing up for longer than she cared to admit, lashed out and sought a target. There was no one else but Jane. Jane who was the embodiment of dangerous, glamorous London as much as Alma Cogan was. 

"If that's just how the business works," Cynthia said tartly, hardly recognizing her own voice, "then what is Paul doing with Sandra? _She_ is not a singer, is she? But I suppose you've got nothing to worry about. It's not like a pretty London actress with an eccentric family is Paul's type." 

She wanted someone to feel the misery and inadequacy she felt, just for a moment. Jane was sitting close enough that Cynthia could see her beautiful face flinch a little, and was immediately ashamed. Jane had only wanted to be nice, had indeed been the only person on this horrible party who'd cared how Cynthia felt. 

"I'm sorry," Cynthia whispered, feeling the tears well up for real now, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it - I'm sorry." 

"There's no need," Jane replied, standing up, immaculate facade restored, manners perfect. "It's been a long evening for all of us."

But she left, and not too much later afterwards Cynthia saw her pull Paul aside, which was followed by Paul and Jane making their goodbyes to Alma and her mother and sister. Cynthia swallowed, pulled her courage together and sought out her husband.  
"John, can we leave, too? I'm worried about Julian."

She didn't really expect him to agree. She expected him to point out they had a housekeeper and a maid now, though the idea of having servants still disconcerted both them more than it helped. But it would remind him she was there, and maybe he would talk with her for a while. But what John said was: "I'll ask Neil to take you home then."


	4. That's Happiness

"My parents bought every seventy-eight that came out," Alma told Brian, one lazy afternoon when he took the liberty to leave the office, the press and his acts behind for two hours, "June Christie, Margaret Whiting, all those wonderful band singers, and I listened and I knew. I knew that was who I wanted to be." 

"I didn't. I wanted to be a dress designer as a child. Managing a store seemed so dull by comparison, and I certainly had no idea I'd ever manage musical acts," he said ruefully, thinking of the reaction from his parents at the time. He considered himself lucky; his parents had supported him in so many ways through most of his life. But there were exceptions. 

"Ah, but designing clothes is the cream that makes the cake worthwhile," Alma returned, eyes sparkling. She ought to know; she was famous for designing her own dresses, glamorous gown after glamorous gown. "All part of the act, and you did get to do it, too."  


That was true enough. He loved that part of being a manager as much as anything, though he was careful not to show it too openly. It was one thing for Alma Cogan to delight in coming up with her own dressing gowns, and another thing entirely for a man to talk about how he enjoyed choosing what his young male stars, currently the object of everyone's desire, should wear. 

They were taking a stroll through Hyde Park, with no reporter and no fan in sight. The conquest of America was behind them, and as much as Brian enjoyed it, well, for the most part, it was nonetheless very restful to experience this again: London on a summer day. There were two conflicting ideas struggling in Brian, trying to take shape while he was talking to Alma. One was that the unexpected liberty he was currently experiencing went beyond having grown a little tired of the life between hotel rooms and limousines. No, it was more than that. Strolling through a park with an attractive woman at his arm, he got the occasional glance from other people, but he knew that there was no malice behind it. What people saw was the most normal thing in the world: a man and a woman talking animatedly, perhaps a couple, remarkable only for their tasteful, fashionable wardrobe and good looks. They were greeted, if they were, with smiles and perhaps even admiration. They were considered a part of what makes this summer day beautiful. 

Just the other night, he had risked it again, not too far away from here, had picked up a young man who hadn't turned out to be a copper, thank God, but had called him a pathetic queer after taking his money and doing what he was paid for anyway. If those same people who were smiling and nodding at him and Alma had seen him then, they'd have been disgusted at best. Called for the police at worst. 

Of course he had escorted the occasional girl before, in his younger days, to please his mother, before giving up the pretense. But that was just it. He wasn't taking Alma out to accommodate anyone, or to lie; he truly enjoyed her company. And so, instead of feeling tongue-tied by pretending to be something he was not, he felt exhilarated, like a prisoner who'd been given leave. 

"And your parents never wanted you to become a respectable dressmaker instead of a singer?" he asked Alma, who shook her head. 

"Mum even took me to tea dances as a child so I'd sing and be noticed. I was eleven when she brought me to the West End. I'll never forget it. Mum persuading the band leader, Van Straten, to let me sing with his band, and me a tall, frightened school girl in my unbecoming brown gym-slip, singing _'The Man I Love'_. If you'd been there, you'd have cried. Of embarrassment." She laughed. "I was dreadful!"

Suddenly he envied her enough to almost scream. 

That was the other idea constantly going through his head: in many ways, she had the life he often wished for. He could imagine it must have been mortifying and intimidating to sing in front of all those people, but she had done it, and it had carried her all the way to where she was now. Whatever it was, the magic, the charm that allowed the boys and dear Cilla and Alma herself to capture an audience, she must have caught it when she had been no other than he'd been, an awkward Jewish child half helped, half stifled by a loving family. He remembered waiting outside the theatre in Liverpool for the actors to get their autographs as a boy, remembered RADA again, all that hope, and the downfall, the emptiness when he realized he would never join that circle. That it was back to the store for him, finally giving in to his father's wishes. Becoming young Mr. Epstein instead, managing director of an utterly respectable Liverpool store. Until. Until.

But even now, now that he'd recreated his life in the most amazing way, it was still impossible for him to do what Alma could. 

"What does it feel like?" he heard himself ask. "Being on a stage, having an audience at your feet?" 

She already knew he'd once tried to become an actor. He had told her when she had tried to introduce him to one of the guests at her parties, whom as it turned out he'd already known. Only that man had actually managed to finish RADA and was, if not a star, then on his way to become a respected character actor. She knew, and so she didn't try to turn the question into a jest, as she did with most things. 

"Like nothing else," she said, utterly serious. "I couldn't live without it."

"I understand," Brian said, and she suddenly stopped walking, her hand on his arm. 

"I mean it. I really couldn't. And sometimes... sometimes I'm afraid. Of what will happen, if they stop coming."

There was hardly a reporter who missed the chance asking the boys what they would do if "the bubble bursts", and it was hardly two years, not even that, since their first single got released. Even the American press had asked the question, on their very first day in the States, when New York fell at their feet. Alma had been a star for more than a decade now, and as much as she projected self assurance, it didn't really surprise him that she would worry and wonder at times about how long it could continue. 

"Surely," Brian said carefully, "that is not even a remote possibility right now. You're adored around the globe. What was it, an entire year with a number one in Japan?"

Despite her previous serious expression, her mouth curved in a pleased smile. Musicians: they all loved to be reminded of their success. 

"In 1962," she said. "But now it's two years later, and the world is changing." She gave him a playful little push as they started to walk again. "You're making it change, Mr. Hot Shot Manager. What will _you_ do if the bubble bursts?" 

"Manage bullfighters instead, maybe," he returned, which was his joke reply for reporters who knew he liked to travel to Spain now and then. In truth, he had no idea. He could not imagine it any more than she could imagine living without an audience. Once, he'd promised John he'd never leave them, leave John, at any rate; the possibility that the boys might leave him was not one he ever allowed himself to seriously contemplate. 

"You could always manage me," she said, quick as lightening, with her trademark giggle. "I don't snore, I bring my own outfits, and I promise not to get them bloody." 

It was impossible to tell whether she was making a joke or whether this was a serious proposal. By now, many musical acts tried to get him as their manager. Of course they did. He was "the man who discovered the Beatles", and it was all very flattering, and frankly, satisfying. Especially keeping all those producers in mind who'd told him, back in the year Alma had spent being Number One in Japan, that guitar groups were on the way out, Northerners were beyond the pale anyway, and he should stick to his father's business in Liverpool. 

But Alma Cogan wasn't just any musical act. And she wouldn't be like [Cilla Black](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FW1WkuQEI8o&feature=related), whom he'd created in the wake of his success with the Beatles and who did what he told her, or Billy Kramer, desperate for another chance. There was also his instinct, that instinct that had first won him respect from his father's employees when he'd guessed, correctly and time after time again, which records would become hits and which ones wouldn't, independently from whether or not he himself liked them. And as certainly as he'd ever believed anything, he believed that while Alma would always be loved by a part of her fans, she'd never be anyone's musical future again. 

"Ah," he said, searching for a way to reply that would not insult her, "but you don't strike me as a woman who would share anyone's attention. Nor should you. And my interests would always be, well, spread."

"Hm," she said enigmatically. "We'll see."

Suddenly, he wasn't completely sure they were talking about management anymore, and he didn't know how he felt about this.


	5. Jealous Guy

"What does Eppy think he's doing with Alma?" John said, halfway between a cup of tea and lighting up a new cigarette. Paul was busy retuning the piano in the Asher basement. This was where Jane's mother Margaret, who was a music teacher, taught her students, and he had it his disposal if there were no students present, but unfortunately this meant it sometimes was seriously out of tune. He mumbled something, and John repeated the question. 

"Alma McCogie, McCartney. Sara the Sizzling Sequin. What does Eppy think he's doing with her?"

Paul couldn't resist. "Well, if a daddy bird loves a mummy bird very, very much, Young John..."

John threw a pencil at his head. 

"What do you care?" Paul asked, more seriously. 

"It's just pointless, is all. Not like he _can_ do anything with her, is it? Being bent." 

There were about a million things Paul would rather be doing than talk about Brian Epstein's sexual preferences with John, of all the people. Not least because it almost inevitably reminded him of his 21st birthday, and John beating up Bob Wooler for making jokes about Brian and John. But he also knew that if you didn't let John talk about something he evidently wanted to talk about, he'd stew, and would be absolutely impossible to work with. 

"I haven't the foggiest." 

"Maybe the poor sod just wants to play at being normal," John said thoughtfully. "Someone should tell him it's bloody stupid, because there's no need. Not with the kind of money we're bringing in. Is there? He can tell anyone to fuck off if they ask him why he doesn't have a girlfriend, so why..."

If you were hanging out with John Lennon from the time you were fifteen, your life depended on learning to decipher his emotional vocabulary. This, right now, was jealousy, and its old friend in the Lennon emotional wardrobe, possessiveness. And it was impossible to tell whom it was directed at, Brian or Alma. The realisation made Paul feel uneasy and a couple of other things he'd rather not examine. 

"Sandra said Alma turned down Cary Grant," Paul said, going for defusion via distraction. "So I really don't think you've got anything to worry about. If you are, that is. Worried. I mean, any woman who can have Cary Grant isn't going to run off with Brian Epstein, is she?" 

"No accounting for taste," John said, but lost his unwarranted seriousness. "Just look at all the birds who're mad about you." 

"Noel Coward, 1932." 

"You've lost me, son."

"[Mad About The Boy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7SfcARX_nQ)", Paul said with a grin, then hummed a few notes of the song he just named, complete with composer and year of release. "See, that's why you suck at charades, genius." 

"You're a bloody awful show-off, Macca, and I'm brilliant at charades. When they aren't about nursery rhymes set to music. How's [your stuff for brother Peter and Giddy Gordon](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6WaCVv5kRg) going anyway?"

Mission accomplished, thought Paul while they slipped back into their tug of war routine, half needling, half helping each other to catch. John had gone from making fun of the song Paul had written for Jane's brother, Peter Asher, and his mate Gordon to give their act a helping hand, to presenting a fragment of his about taking someone's girl away when Paul suddenly thought: someone should ask John what _he_ thought he was doing with Alma. Because if this was something more serious than friendship with some fooling around, it could fuck things up considerably. It was bloody hard to stay friends with someone you'd been in love with and broken up with. Paul had reason to know; he hadn't managed something like that yet, that was certain, which was one of the reasons why, even if it wasn't for Jane, he'd never commit himself to anything with Sandra. If John started something serious with Alma, it wouldn't end in hugs and laughter, it would end in some cut-your-throat-why-don't-you-why-does-everyone-leave-me drama, this being John. And they'd lose their best friend in London.

He liked Alma. He liked her family. That flat was the best, bohemian and homey at the same time, the best of both worlds, in the way they took you in and taught you. You could hang out, you could relax, but you could also _learn_ , something that appealed to the inner voice that sounded like his mother's, telling him to make more of himself. But say John got serious with Alma, and it all ended in tears: Alma and her family would be off limits then. It would be serious, too. Because Paul wasn't the only one who had a dead mother in the back of his mind. He'd never talked with John about this, but it seemed obvious to him, who remembered Julia Lennon vividly. Julia who'd had that type of sparkle, of fun, the mixture of flirtatiousness and camaraderie Alma Cogan had. 

Shit, Paul thought, and found himself rooting for Brian Epstein to propose, lack of appreciation for breasts on Eppy's part be damned.


	6. Scrambled Eggs: Bell Bottom Blues

Maybe that was the first sign of age: coming back from a journey, kicking your heels off and not being in a mood to talk. Then again, her mother, decades older, was practically vibrating with her desire for conversation.

"Oh, darling, let's share the news!"

"There aren't any, Mum," Alma said tiredly, then put on her smile and chatter. "Well, unless you count the government raising the taxes again, and really, what's darling Mr. Wilson thinking? No wonder everyone emigrates to the Bahamas. But I won't, so don't worry, lovely sunshine the whole year would just be beastly for my English complexion." 

Unfortunately, it took far more than an exercise in charm and babble to distract her mother from the things her mother was interested in. 

"So he didn't propose," Fay said flatly. "But - why did he take you to visit his parents if not to propose?" 

Actually, she had no idea, just as she didn't know whether she was more disappointed or relieved that Brian Epstein, after rushing her off to Liverpool to meet his family, had yet to say anything to her that went beyond friendship. 

"Perhaps he's shy and not sure you'd say yes," Fay mused aloud, and Alma rolled her eyes. 

"Mum, I'm not sure I'd say yes, either, so let's leave it at that. A cuppa would be nice, be a dear, yes?"

"But..."

For God's sake, Alma thought, but there were things one could never say out loud to one's mother. Sometimes she dreamed of doing so anyway. Dreamed of saying: _Just look at you, Mum. You wanted what I have. You didn't just want the stage for me and Sandra, you wanted to be there, too. And you know why you never tried? Because you got married instead. And Dad, darling dad, he loved the idea of his girls being applauded - and then married. That would be the end. He'd never considered for a moment letting his wife on the stage. And he thought just the thing you do: be a star for some years, make me proud, then get married, be a wife. Nothing else. Because that was the be all and end all, wasn't it? Becoming a wife. Not the career. But not for me, Mum. Not for me._

Sandra, who had to put up with her share of their mother's matchmaking obsession, came to her aid. 

"Look, Mum, Brian's lovely, but maybe it's for the best. He, hm, is such a dedicated bachelor."

Fay gave her younger daughter her version of the family eye roll, then shocked both of her daughters, who had had to find out about sex in school from class mates because their mother would never approach the topic with them, by declaring: "If you mean he likes boys, I know that. But is that a reason not to marry, I ask you?" She made a sweeping movement with her arms. "That nice Danny Kaye is married, and so is the lovely Mr. Grant, and I've heard rumours about wonderful Cole Porter, and he's such a dedicated husband, isn't he?" 

"Mum," said Sandra, stunned. Alma didn't say anything. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. 

"Just make it clear that you'll be understanding as long as he's discreet and puts your welfare first, dear," Fay said serenely to Alma. She couldn't know it, but Queenie Epstein, when she'd gotten Alma alone for a moment, had said something very similar. _You'd be understanding, won't you, dear?_

"And what if I don't want to be understanding?" Alma asked, suddenly sick of swallowing down her irritation. 

"But..."

"Mum", Alma said, and decided she didn't care if she did give her mother a heart attack right now, "if I do marry, I want the man in question to be in my bed. And if there's understanding to be done, it should be his understanding that he has to make me happy there as well. Otherwise he doesn't have to be my husband, he can stick to managing my accounts, and frankly, I'm not even sure Brian is interested in that, either, so can we _please_ stick to tea and talking fashion for the rest of the night?" 

Fay opened her mouth, closed it again, harrumphed and vanished into the kitchen. Sandra looked at Alma, somewhat awed. 

"But - you do like him, don't you?" she asked softly. 

"Don't you start."

She did, that was the trouble. Well, part of the trouble. There were men you wanted to have sex with, and men you knew you could get along with, men who could be useful professionally and men who could be friends, and they were very rarely one and the same, but in Brian Epstein's case, all those qualities were there. If he'd taken her to a hotel room instead to that family dinner with his parents and that jealous younger brother who looked as if he had a cramped stomach the entire time, she'd have said yes without hesitation. But he hadn't, and he wouldn't, she was increasingly sure of it. She imagined a marriage the way her mother envisioned it, amiable companionship, respectability drowning out the rumours about him and about herself, which were there, she knew they were, but no passion, and it was a ghastly, mocking nightmare version of what she actually wanted. Just to torment herself further, she imagined him then telling her, in his charming, gentle Brian way, that maybe it was time to slow down a little and give other singers a chance, by which he would mean her concerts were no longer fully booked, and he saw no reason to put any effort into changing that. It wasn't, after all, as if she was one of the boys. 

The telephone rang, as if conjured up by fate; it was Paul, who'd heard from Sandra she'd be back tonight, and asked whether he could drop by, as he had something to ask her. She was tempted to be malicious and return whether he meant to ask her for Sandra's hand in marriage, but that would mean venting her pique with her mother, Paul's manager and men in general at the expense of her younger sister, and so she gamely retorted: "Come along then, darling, we're all yours." 

At least he didn't ask her how the trip to Liverpool with Brian had gone when he showed up. As it turned out, he was there on musical business. He'd woken up with a melody in his head, he said, a complete song, but he couldn't be sure whether he hadn't heard it somewhere before and simply forgotten where. 

"You're the most songy person I know, so could you...?"

"Play along," she said, intrigued and amused by the word "songy", which she hadn't heard before. She also felt a stirring excitement that had nothing to do with sex; even his flirtation with Sandra aside, Paul wasn't her type, but those lovely tunes he and John kept churning out didn't seem to stop any time soon, and it was only human, wasn't it, to hope one of them would be for her. At first she'd told herself that their type of music wasn't her thing, and at any rate, her fans would be disappointed if she jumped on the bandwagon of covering Beatles songs, but then she'd heard the song he'd written for Cilla Black, "[It's For You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vambhKG1m6E&feature=related)", not something the Beatles could have sung but tailor-made for a female voice. An original, not a cover. If he and John could do that, they could write for her as well.  


The melody Paul was playing on the piano was lovely and insidiously unforgettable and utterly unsuitable for a rock band; it was also original as far as she could tell, and the rest of her Brian-induced frustration vanished completely. Clearly, it was meant for her. She could just imagine wrapping her voice around it. It would be a hit, of course it would, a world wide hit, an original, not a cover other singers had tackled before her: something that would prove once and for all to everyone she wasn't yesterday's star. 

"It's beautiful," she said, her enthusiasm ablaze, "and your fingerprints are all over it, dear, so don't worry. It's yours."

That was his cue to say, "No, it's yours, Alma, I wrote it for you," but instead, Paul just looked relieved and said: "You're sure? It's just - it's perfect."

"You're so modest, darling."

He laughed, but didn't deny it. It was an interesting difference between him and John; John varied all the time between considering himself a genius and considering himself shit, but if Paul had a crisis of confidence, he kept it far too well hidden for her to spot it. The impression he gave was that he knew he was good and saw no reason to hide that he knew. 

"Play it again," she demanded, and he did. _Yes_ , Alma thought, _yes. This it is. The one. The one I'll be remembered for._

"It _is_ perfect," she said honestly. "Again." Who needed sex if they could have music? 

"Did you dream up lyrics as well?" asked Sandra, apparently feeling a bit left out. Their mother, whose instinctive reaction to any of the Beatles' visiting was to prepare food, which usually was gratefully accepted, came in to announce she'd rustled up some scrambled eggs, and without missing a beat, Paul burst into song. "Scrambled eggs," he crooned at Sandra, "oh my baby, how I love your legs..." 

Sandra and Alma both exploded into giggles, and Paul kept his straight face only a moment longer before joining them. 

"Seriously, though," Alma said when she could breathe again, "you need to draft John into this right away. The lyrics will have to be perfect, too." 

"Miss Cogan, are you insinuating John is better at words than I am?" Paul asked, mock-insulted, but she could tell a part of him meant it. The two of them reminded her of a high wire act, constantly edging each other on, both competing and completing.  


"Darling, I might as well say he's worse at melody than you are," she said with a Cheshire cat smile. "In any case, I refuse to sing about scrambled eggs. It'll have to be chocolates at the very least."

Something in his face changed, going from surprise to realisation very quickly, and for a second, he looked as embarrassed and horrified as Brian had done when she'd teased him about his mother looking for nice boys as well. She didn't understand.  


"I, um. Alma. Actually. I brought it to you because you're such a song buff, not... Of course you can sing it later, it'll be great, smashing, if you do, but, well, it's my song, you know, so..."

Just possibly, she would have felt more humiliated if she'd asked Brian to go to bed with her point blank and he'd have said no. Possibly. With the training of years in show business and great effort, she painted a smile on her face again.

"Well, it'll certainly make a change from stomping your feet on the ground and screaming about money", she said brightly, "if you boys record it."

"Alma..."

"Don't worry about it, dear. I'm just surprised. It's - not quite your usual style."

"We've done ballads before," he said defensively. So they had, of course, and that had been one of the reasons why she was sure this particular song came from Paul and not from some subconscious memory of a radio tune. To the musician in her, this felt like songs like _And I Love Her_ were the seed while this one was a blooming orchid. A part of her told her to be rational; if she had the ability to create music, to come up with a melody like that, she'd want to record it first herself, too. But after the day she'd had, she was in no mood to be rational. 

"Quite, and I'm sure the little girls will sob over the ballad of the eggs as well. If they ever hear a single note of it, given the level of screaming at your concerts," she retorted, and, feeling her cheerful mask slip, decided she had to get out of here. In fact, she knew exactly what she would do. It all came together, her mother, Brian, the song, men and the way they expected you to be there for them, cheering them up, understanding, but never giving anything significant back, and she made a decision. 

"You know," she said, "I feel like going to a club. Sandra has just been _raving_ about the Ad Lib. We should go there."

As she had expected, Paul took this as an olive branch and declared the Ad Lib was fab and he'd gladly take Sandra and her there. On the way out the door, he stopped and said: "Alma, Rings wanted to go there tonight, too, and John. Just - don't tell them about the song, yeah? John's a bit funny when he doesn't hear them first."

She put her finger on the mouth and smiled while she cheerfully could have killed him. "No more talking shop tonight, understood."

It wasn't even a lie. She was planning on doing other things with John anyway.


	7. You're Going To Lose That Girl

John never knew why Alma, who usually preferred throwing parties in her own place to clubbing, showed up at the Ad Lib with her sister and Paul in tow. Nor did he know why she picked this night of all nights to respond to his first innuendo by pulling him into the next taxi and fulfilling one of his half forgotten teenage fantasies about having a beautiful woman ravish him in the back of the car while a driver had to look helpless in envy, but he wasn't complaining. He had fantasized about her quite a lot by now, and sometimes those fantasies did involve helpless bystanders, though they usually weren't taxi drivers but managers. 

"Christ, Miss Cogan," he said in a fake American accent, affecting an aw-shucks manner because otherwise he'd have to admit without irony that he did feel overwhelmed.

"No, dear, still Jewish." 

Trust Alma to still be witty during sex. She paid for a room at the Dorchester, too, and at some point between the carpet and the bed he told her: "You know, I always wanted to be someone's gigolo. No work and free sex, but they said in Hamburg you'd actually have to be nice between the sex, so that was out." 

"Obviously," she said, but she didn't laugh, and he had wanted her to, to show she disagreed about his capacity for niceness, at the very least. For some reason, he wanted her to like him. He couldn't stand most of the girls by now when it was over; they'd get their orgasms if you'd put them with a mannequin wearing a dildo and a Beatle wig just the same, and he hated them for it a little, demanding more and more and more outrageous things, just to see how much they'd do in order to fuck a Beatle. He also had started to hate Cynthia, just a little, for being Cynthia and eternally understanding and being there to cuddle even five minutes after he'd told her her dark roots were showing and that dye looked really cheap. But with Alma he actually wondered whether she saw him, warts and all, and liked him anyway, the way a mate would, unafraid to tell him when he was rubbish but not kicking him out, either. 

That, and he couldn't stand the idea of her mooning about Brian. Or Brian mooning about her. 

"So no vote of confidence in my future as a kept man then?" he asked, and she looked at him. She was tall for a woman, which meant they saw eye to eye when standing, and right now, she was stretched out half across him. 

"I don't know yet," she said languidly. "Let's find out how good you really are with your tongue."

That was a challenge he hadn't expected. It also was a bit of a power game, he thought; if you were a star, you got the blow jobs. You didn't give them. Or cunnilingus, rather, in this case. Then again, why not? A challenge was a challenge. 

She looked satisfyingly spent later when he shared a cigarette with her, the taste of her still in his mouth. 

"So?" he prompted, because he really wanted to know.

"If you had to live without one," she said unexpectedly, "music or sex, which would you pick?" 

"You and your quizzes," he said, wishing he'd thought to bring pot along. It would be fun to introduce her. Or maybe she'd know already. Sara Sequin Superior, mother of all knowledge of the London scene. 

"No, really."

"No, really not," he returned, concluding that she'd brought up the subject because she wanted a compliment as well. "I'm not turning into a eunuch any time soon after something like this, Sequinissima. And you can bet that if they crash us on a desert island without any instruments at all, Paul will figure out a way to make instruments out of sand or something. Teach the sand fleas how to sing choir, I don't know. So there's no point to the question." 

She handed the cigarette over. 

"There was, but you've already answered it, I guess," she said. "I didn't know you needed Paul for the music all the time."

He grew still. Of course they wrote separately as well as together, and she knew that, since they had mentioned it to her. But he'd just equated Paul with her question about living with or without music anyway, and without noticing. He didn't want to talk about that, and so he did what he always did when he felt uncomfortable about something. He attacked. 

"Are you asking me whether I'd like to be you?"

Due to her arched eyebrows and wide eyes, she had an expression of slight surprise on her face anyway most of the time, which he had amply mocked and parodied in the days when he hadn't known her. But now the corners of her mouth curved downwards and her eyebrows drew together. The hollow of her neck deepened, and he realised that until this moment, he'd never seen her genuinely surprised at all. It gave her, for the first time, an aura of vulnerability, and he felt absurdly reminded of the time when he'd asked his mother why he couldn't live with her. The memory did nothing to soothe him. 

"Because," he continued, "spending all this time with Eppy means no sex for you for sure. And you can't call that stuff you sing music, either." 

He was sorry as soon as he said it, and he wasn't, all at the same time. She was very pale now. 

"Go back to your wife," she said. "She has to put up with you by force of the law, poor soul. " 

"Look.." he began, not sure whether he wanted to apologize or hurt her further now that he had discovered he could, which meant she cared, which meant she wasn't as splendidly autonomous as he had assumed, nor as perfect: otherwise she'd hardly care for someone like him. 

"....But Paul doesn't," she said, ignoring his interjection. "And considering he's writing songs he can't possibly sing with you right now, he's looking for an exit strategy already. Good for him."


	8. Why Do Fools Fall In Love?

Brian had meant to ask her. Had pictured the scene exactly: in front of his parents, Clive and all the portraits of respectable, worthy Epsteins of generations past. The delighted acceptance in Alma's face, the joy and not so hidden relief in his mother's and father's, the amazement, surprise and jealousy in Clive's. He even had bought the ring, in secret, through Alistair, not through Peter, because Peter wouldn't have let him go through with it without a scene and ample use of the terms "lie" and "hypocrite", whereas dear Alistair still thought Brian's only problems were his temper and perfectionism. It would all be behind him, the shame, the useless meetings with psychiatrists, the need to force himself to smile or not react at all if someone in his presence made the usual jokes about pansies, queers, fags, you know, those people. Those. 

Except that it wouldn't, and that was, in the end, why he hadn't gone through with it. He could imagine his wedding with Alma, a Jewish wedding to make their mothers proud, but not the wedding night. The sense of happiness he often felt in her presence didn't include desire. And he knew himself too well to believe he'd be capable of living in celibacy for the rest of his life. On a more minor scale, there was also the awareness that as generous and kind as Alma was as a hostess and friend, she'd still expect any husband to devote himself to her interests first and foremost, not to a variety of groups and acts he was managing. 

So the words remained unspoken, but he still felt he owed her some sort of explanation for the trip to Liverpool. The relentless business of his life offered him a lot of excuses for not finding the time at first, not least because there was some sort of tension between John and Paul that had to do with a song Paul was working on, though given the boys' insistence he was to keep out of the musical side of things, it was hard to say what it was really about. Then Alma went on a tour to Iceland, no less, where she was surprisingly popular. But he began to realize he missed her, and decided that having the money for extravagant short term travels entirely justified a quick trip to the north. 

"You shouldn't have," she said when he produced a large Hermes bottle. It was her favourite perfume. 

"We don't always do what we should," he replied, "but in this case..."

"Speaking of things we shouldn't have done," she interrupted. "I - I may have done something stupid. And for the wrong reasons." 

He blinked. 

"He may have told you already, but just in case he hasn't and is planning to spring it on you some time when you don't suspect - I had sex with John."

"Oh," he said, absurdly reminded of how he felt when learning to swim and pushed under water by the other boys. "Oh." He tried to rally, to say something smooth and debonair and worldly, but nothing came to mind. It shouldn't be such a surprise, and it shouldn't hurt at all, really. He had better reason than most to know John had sex with a lot of people - with a lot of _women_ \- and he certainly could understand, better than most, why Alma would want to have sex with John. Not to mention that he'd watched them flirt at a lot of occasions, though, come to think of it, not in the recent weeks. No, it shouldn't be a surprise, and it shouldn't hurt. It wasn't as if either of them had any type of relation with him that made hurt an acceptable reaction. 

He was so furious that if Alma had been male instead of female, he'd grab her, shout at her, perhaps strike her, even. And then they probably would have sex. But she wasn't a man, and so his thoughts and emotions came full circle. 

"I was so angry," Alma said, as if reading his mind. "With you, but not only with you. With me. With my mother. With Paul. With the whole bloody business and the way it gives you everything you ever wanted and then starts to take it away again. I guess I've had sex for worse reasons, but none more stupid, so, for what it's worth - I'm sorry." 

The sensible thing would be to accept her apology, say something gracious and gentlemanly, agree to never talk of this again and withdraw. But he couldn't. He'd never been able to imagine himself with Alma in anything resembling a sexual scenario, but now his perverse mind insisted on playing out all sorts of scenarios with Alma and John. It hurt, like rubbing salt on an open wound, but the worst thing was that pain had always excited him as well. 

"Brian, why did you introduce me to your parents?"

"Because we're friends," he said bitterly, and the lie hung between them. But he couldn't tell her the truth. Could he? "Do you", he heard himself ask, "do you intend to... continue..." He couldn't bring himself to finish saying it out loud. 

"God, no," she said, so spontaneous and unreserved that he believed her. He should have been relieved, not just for personal reasons. Because the girls on tour were one thing, but an affair between John and Alma Cogan would have been next to impossible to keep from the press, and as far as the public was concerned, John was a happily married man with an adorable baby son. But his first reaction wasn't relief. It was a lacerating surprise, because how could she not?  


Thoughts like this weren't meant to be spoken out loud, but he found himself admitting something else. 

"I had bought a ring," he said. "For that day, the day I introduced you to my parents. But that is just it, don't you see? It would have been for them. They still think if I just find the right girl, I'll become like them, but I'm not. I never was. I never will be. It doesn't work that way. And that's why I couldn't ask you, in the end." 

"For them," she said, in her warm, low voice and, unbelievably, with a teasing undertone, "and not the slightest bit for me? Why, Brian, then the girls at your office would have done. They all adore you." 

If there was one thing he recognized in women as well as in men, it was fishing for compliments, and he found himself responding accordingly. 

"No, they wouldn't. Alma, you must know..."

"Yes?" she prompted. 

"I would marry you, if you were - if I was - if you were a man. Or I a woman. And I think I shall make an end to these absurd constructions before they become even more convoluted and ridiculous. But you are without question the most enchanting woman I know."

"With a dubious taste in men," she sighed, and he didn't know whether this referred to John, or him, or both, and whether she was making a bitter joke at her own expense or was still angry with him. His own fury, so overwhelming a few minutes before, had transformed into a bewildering sense of loss. 

"Tell me one thing", she said. "What if you'd asked, and I'd have said no?"

After her revelation about John, this was the second time she managed to stun him. 

"That never occurred to you, did it? That I could have said no? That life as Mrs. Epstein really wasn't the be and end all of my earthly wishes?" 

"But my dear," he stammered, "I thought we had, well, an understanding. And besides..."

"...and besides, that's what every girl dreams of", she said with a grimace. " _Men_. You know, I honestly have no idea whether I'd have said yes or no on that day, given that you set it up in a way that would have made me look rude as hell in front of your parents if I had declined. And I just may have been silly enough to fall in love with you. A little. But for God's sake, surely men and women can't be so different that you can't see it hurts, being taken for granted?"

He turned away. "Oh, believe me, I know _that_ ," he said, almost choking on the words, and then he felt her hand on his cheek, half stroking, half cradling.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Of course you do." The warmth of her fingers still lingered on his skin when she took a step back and, as if wrapping herself in one of her gowns, smiled again, exuding humor and invulnerability. "Well," she said, "never mind marriage, but if you were to become _my_ manager, I'd never take you for granted. Given you already pursue me to Iceland just to hear a rendition of _Never do a tango with an Eskimo_ in Icelandic. Now that's true appreciation for an artist, darling." 

Against his will, he found himself smiling. "You don't speak Icelandic." 

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Ah, but Mr. Epstein, Sir, I can sing it." She still wore her Hollywood smile, but he could see the sadness in her eyes when she added: "It would mean a lot if you'd stayed for the concert, you know. And not just because the press will notice and so will the label who's renegotiating my contracts as we speak." 

"Of course I'll stay," he said, and he did.


	9. Good Day Sunshine

She had a new show at the Palladium booked, and as she wouldn't dream of wearing the same dresses twice, or, for that matter, the same hats, Alma was in the middle of another shopping expedition when a rise in excited murmurs and high pitched teenage voices alerted her she was about to be double tagged by John and Paul, who more or less kidnapped her into a limousine. 

"Darlings," she said with somewhat strained politeness, "you could have waited until the next weekend party. We've picked garage sales as the theme of decoration, don't you know, taking out the rubbish, and you'd fit right in."

"A little bird in manager form told us you're angry," John said. "In case we're not genius enough to work it out ourselves."

"Which we are," Paul joined in. "The lack of invites kind of gives it away."

"You don't say." 

"Brian seems to think an apology is due," John continued. "Though I'm not sure by whom and for what, because, see, what we also worked out and he didn't is that you wanted me only for my body and jealousy inducing abilities, Paul for his music and Brian for his scintillating personality and money making skills. I'm still trying to decide whether I've been insulted or they were."

"It's the Lennon way of saying that we miss you," Paul said. "Also your mother and her sandwiches, and the charades. But he's chicken, so he won't admit it."

"The McCartney way is not saying that he finished the bloody song, which by the way I hate already because it's the earworm of earworms and the lyrics don't make fucking sense because they don't have a conclusion. He wants to show off with it at Blackpool and is shaking in his boots because he thinks if he invites you, you'll bite his head off for not letting you sing it first. But the man just wants an audience that's an expert in earworms to show off to properly. Which is you." 

She regarded them thoughtfully, making sure not to smile, despite the fact that she actually wanted to. Sometimes, in moments like these, you did notice how very young they still were. Otherwise they would have known that no singer in her right mind could afford to cut them at this point in time. On the flight back from Iceland she'd read an interview where Leonard Bernstein, no less, was comparing them to Schubert. 

"We don't have many friends, Alma," Paul said seriously, and this time there was no wisecrack from John. Maybe she was wrong, and youth or not, they _had_ worked it out. What it meant, what it truly meant to be on the top, however temporarily, that only being surrounded by courtiers was worse than having no company at all, and that you took what real emotions you could get. If they were mixed in self interest, well, whose weren't? 

"Blackpool, hm?" she asked slowly. 

"[Where solo opportunity will knock for young McCartney](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ms65JQTBCcQ&feature=related) from Liverpool," John said, imitating the announcer in a popular talent spotting show. "Did I mention I hate the song?" 

He really had the art of disguising actual fear behind joking about it down to a t. Usually, you didn't succeed in show biz because of your balanced personality, and so she'd lived among the neurotically insecure and over confident for most of her life. But she'd rarely known someone so deeply afraid of being left: by Paul, by Brian, even by her a little, it seemed. 

"You have to come," Paul said. "Otherwise he'll go on like that till I strangle him on stage, and then Brian is sitting on a lot of prepaid tickets and sold out bookings and has debts from now till the end of time, paying all that money back. So you have to. In the public interest."

The whole mess with John had been her fault as much as John's, and she should have known from the beginning that she'd never get what she wanted from Brian, but in a way Paul, who hadn't meant to, had hurt her worst. Because she still thought [it should be her song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uomAk87-M7E&feature=related), and she would till the end of time. 

Well. Or till he did really write one for her, and her alone. 

"I suppose I'll have to sacrifice myself and hear you out, then, in the public interest, when you sing about scrambled eggs," she said, and allowed laughter to return to her voice. 

"He calls it _Yesterday_ now," John said disgustedly. "The eggs, at least, had style." 

"What's your Mum's take on poisoning the tea for guests?" Paul asked her. "Do you think she'll do it if I ask nicely? Slip him some really good cyanide?"

"If we still get any tea at your place," John said slowly. "Do we?"

"Darlings," she replied, wondering whether to call the owner of the Ad Lib back who according to Sandra hadn't stopped calling her since she'd barely noticed him the night she'd dragged John out of his club, wondering whether she could try to set Brian up with Lionel or whether that was a recipe for mutual destruction, wondering whether a record with Lennon/McCartney cover versions wouldn't be the best way to convince these ridiculously talented young prats that she did have the talent to do something unique with their songs, "of course you do. It's the oldest rule of the book. Sing for your supper, and you'll be the life of the party."

[](http://smg.beta.photobucket.com/user/SelenaK/library/Fannish%20Stuff)


End file.
